I was four and half when my older brother passed away. I was old enough to know him and to expect his presence, and young enough to learn life without him a lot faster than my older counterparts.

How do you grieve at four and a half? From my experience, not very well. I think at my best, I understood that my brother wasn’t around anymore, and my parents were sad. I understood that I should be serious when people talked about my brother. I understood that I shouldn’t touch the two sealed bins in our basement that held his toys, clothes, and precious samurai swords.

And so I grew up.

I remember dreading the part of small talk where people asked whether I had siblings. I had a sister a couple of years after my brother’s death. And she is beautiful, remarkable, and of course I tell everyone about her. But what about Danny? Should I tell people I had a brother who had died? It’s kind of a party killer. You see, people change their tone of voice when you express a loss. Their eyes grow softer, they reach out to make physical contact. And always, always the words “I’m so sorry.”

And what do you say to that when it’s been so long since you felt the pain of that loss? Or haven’t really felt it at all? What do you say back to the “I’m so sorry’s” to keep the conversation going and shift it away from the building lump in your throat that you’ve been pushing down for 12 years?

I was 16 when I found the box.

I had just moved into my own room, and had all the upstairs to myself. My only next door neighbor was the unfinished room next to mine. It housed Christmas, Thanksgiving, and boxes upon boxes of pictures my dad took through the years. Occasionally I would go rummage through them and pick out ones that I loved and wanted to keep or make collages with.

And one day, I found a box I had never seen before. It had my brothers death certificate. And along with it, pictures of his 6-year-old self, bald and puffy from treatment. I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to leave and forget that I had ever seen those pictures. But I couldn’t. I could only cry, because he was so little.

That was the beginning of my grieving process for my brother. And I hope this isn’t discouraging to you, but that process isn’t over. And in this life, it never will be.

The thing about grief I hate the most is that it’s always an uninvited guest. I can’t think of anyone ever that wakes up and says, “I can’t wait to mourn today!” Except maybe those people in the Bible whose job it was to mourn at funerals.

I don’t ever really get a say as to when grief strikes me. I know it will always be hard in December, when Danny’s birthday and death anniversary are a week apart. But I didn’t anticipate the first time I babysat my pastor’s 7 year-old to be hard. Or teaching Sunday school to 3rd-5th graders, realizing that they’re all older than he was.

Graduating high school, having my heart broken for the first time, walking through my parents divorce—I wanted nothing more than to not be the oldest, and to have an older sibling that would say it was going to be okay. Getting engaged, getting married, moving away. At every milestone, there are pieces of grief present. I wonder at what life would have been like if Danny had lived.

But here’s the thing,

as time goes on, that grief —it keeps transforming. Over the years, I’ve learned to be comfortable in accepting people’s “I’m so sorry’s”. I’ll smile and say, “thank you, he lived a beautiful life,” and then ask about their family and use the solemnity of his life and death as a bridge to learn someone else’s story. Because we all have grief stories.

And my grief,  it’s still teary. Even as I type this, I mourn for Danny. But there is so much beauty and joy in the fact that I still have memories of him that are in tact. There is beauty in the moments of sharing his story, when someone shares their grief and loss. There is joy in remembering him standing on the bed in his PJs singing Achey-Breakey Heart while badly strumming his new guitar.

There is cause to celebrate, because losing Danny has given me a softness for others who have encountered loss. There is cause to celebrate, because everyone at one point or another, has or will experience loss, and that means I’m not alone. There is cause to celebrate, because in my brother’s death, lies a beautiful story of a little boy who loved playing violin, going to church, and fighting physical and imaginary villains. And his story introduced me to grief, and helped me discover what it looks like to pursue joy.

Throughout the years, I’ve learned three things about joy, grief, and celebration:

1. You are not meant to grieve alone. It is hard sometimes. And swallowing the lump in your throat may seem easier—but it’s actually not. The people we have lost are worth mourning. It’s not weakness to mourn someone, and it isn’t strength to white-knuckle through your sorrows in silence. Find someone safe that you can remember your loss with. Cry until you laugh. Laugh until you cry. Sit in silence together. Look through pictures together. Let yourself celebrate the fact that your pain exists, because you loved deeply.
2. Don’t let anyone tell you that you aren’t grieving “fast enough.” Whatever that means. We’re all different. Some people have more coping skills than others. Also, with the loss of a person, grief is ongoing. It’s okay to be where you are. Don’t rush the process. For goodness sake I started grieving 8 years ago, and I’m still grieving. Experiencing pain and loss is a part of life–a really hard part of life. There is nothing wrong with you and you don’t have to be “over it” at any given point.
3. Do allow yourself to experience joy! I think a lot of times we think of grief in an old fashioned sense, where you have to wear black, seriously mourn, and refrain from joyful activities like laughing, having company, and watching silly cat videos for six weeks. Grief and Joy CAN coexist at the same time. They most often do. These two experiences are not mutually exclusive. We so often believe the lie that joy is happiness, when it isn’t. Joy isn’t as apparent or circumstantial as happiness. Joy is experiencing hope that healing will come; joy is embracing grief and knowing you aren’t alone. Joy makes an appearance at the most mysterious times—bringing up a beautiful memory, in a teary embrace, in the hope that even the hardest parts of life can be beautiful.

In my journey of grieving my brother, I’ve learned to recognize that part of my obsession with celebrating half birthdays, minor holidays, and everyday nothings, comes from an understanding that life is beautiful, and brief. I crave celebration because it’s my way of finding things to be thankful for—whether it’s the Olympics, a beautiful summer day, or just an opportunity to gather with my friends. Celebration shows me that grief is not the only part of my story, and even when it feels like it is, there’s always opportunity to invite grief into the rest of my life.

And I like to think that when grief shows up to my party of a life, it smiles a little less shyly than the last time, because it knows it belongs, but it won’t be without company. Grief is getting comfortable with joy, and together, we’re all healing.

Mary-Beth Johnson

Mary-Beth is a creative, food-obsessed, Georgia transplant living Chicago. She is proudly and fiercely Latina, and more specifically Chapina. In her day to day she is a food educator to students around Chicagoland aged 3 to 80+, both virtually and in-person. She is passionate about cultivating the truth that every person has an understanding of food that deserves being brought to the table, and that time in the kitchen can be sacred, passionate, and an act of love for self and others. Outside the kitchen you can find her at the intersections of infertility, chronic illness, and a deep love for the dignity of all humans. She hopes to create a space that is holistic about the role of food in the social, political, relational, and physiological dynamics of our world.